A Strange but Beautiful Compositon
by Ally1251
Summary: "Perhaps it was the tone of the day, the rush of the morning, the stress or his sour mood and the regrets that followed, but John could not allow himself take another step away from the man he had left behind." Disclaimer: I own nothing. Also published on AO3.


Work Text:

There was not enough tea in the world to make up for the lack of sleep that John Watson had suffered in the last few nights, this he considered as he drained the last dregs from his cup and immediately considered brewing another.

Under the scrutiny of the reflection of the mirror, noting the bags under his eyes, his pale complexion, the lines etched deep into his face, he recognised that he had certainly seen better days and that it was quite possible he had slept better in the trenches of Afghanistan than he had in his own bed in the last few nights.

"Dad!" a demanding voice called from the kitchen, interrupting the scrape of the razor against his stubble, "Fathers' used up all the raspberry jam again."

"Sherlock! Could you please get Abby some peanut butter for her toast?"

"I can't have peanut butter Dad, Tyrell from school has a severe nut allergy and could go into anaphylactic shock."

"Anaphylactic..." John shook his head in disbelief. He was often astonished by his daughters brightness, who at the tender age of five, could spell and pronounce complex words, even though most children in her class were struggling to write their own names. She had of course, biologically inherited her Dad and Mothers intelligence, and having Sherlock Holmes as your father had done little to staunch her thirst for knowledge.

"Abby," John began exasperated, then eased his tone, "You can have peanut butter on your toast as long as you remember to clean your teeth before you go to school," he thought for a moment, tapping the hairs from the razor and running the blades under hot water, "And as long as you don't kiss Tyrell..."

"Ew!" A cry of disgust answered from the kitchen. As he finished his morning routine, the previous days and nights crawled through his head like a bad dream.

On Monday evening Sherlock had received a text message during dinner (Chinese takeaway, Sherlock had forgotten to go shopping again) prompting them to leave their daughter with Mrs. Hudson, taking a cab to Hackney to meet Lestrade at a new crime scene. They hadn't returned home until the skies had turned grey with the early morning light, Sherlock raging on an adrenaline high from being chased through the streets of London by a schizophrenic cannibal and John stoically preparing for a new day at the clinic with no sleep.

Tuesday night had been sleepless as well, as Abby had caught a cold at school and was kept awake by a nasty cough and fever. While John had years of medical training to reassure himself that she would be on the mend with fluids and bed rest, Sherlock had abandoned all pretence of logic and reason and spent the night pacing outside Abby's bedroom, rushing to John if she so much as coughed in her sleep. So, it was at three in the morning that John found himself sweating profusely, wedged against a tiny human who was radiating a startling fever heat and his hysterical parter who shook John awake every few hours to check one their daughters condition.

Wednesday night was a repeat of Tuesday, the only difference being that John had finally snapped and threatened to lock Sherlock out of the flat if he didn't stop insisting that Abigail had somehow contracted Tuberculosis and that her apparent recovery was just 'the calm before the storm'.

And so it was on Thursday morning when Abigail, free of all deadly diseases, was ready to return to school, and that John found himself standing front of the mirror swaying with fatigue and wondering how he was going to get through another day at the clinic.

"Dad! I can't reach the peanut butter!"

And where the bloody hell was Sherlock?

John strode from bathroom towards the kitchen. Abby sat at the table with a knife in hand, smearing butter on her toast with impressive dexterity. He glanced at the clock; late, they were going to be late.

He reached for the peanut butter in the top cupboard, unscrewed the lid and placed it alongside his daughter who was so engrossed in her task she didn't bother to acknowledge him. It reminded him uncannily of the person was trying to locate in the flat at this very moment.

"Sherlock?!"

"Bedroom," came a single worded answer from behind a closed door. John walked into the bed room to a scene of complete chaos, the wardrobe door wide open and every shirt and tie that John had ever owned was flung on the unmade bed.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm trying to find a tie that matches a shirt for you to wear today, and so far all I can conclude from the contents of your wardrobe is that you have no sense of style whatsoever."

It astounded John how he could love someone so much but also have such a frequent impulse to strangle them.

"Sherlock, I really don't mind whether my tie matches my shirt today, I just care about getting to work on time and Abby getting to school. We've talked about this, remember? Prioritising?"

"Well John, as far as I'm concerned, you not assaulting your patients with your unsightly tie and shirt combinations is a high priority."

"We don't have time for this!" John snatched a tie from Sherlocks grasp, "It doesn't matter if my pastel offsets the paisley with the right tones. What I do care about is that Abby is ready for school, alright?"

The taller man stood silent, face maddeningly impassive, then turned heel and exited the room leaving John with the mess of clothes to deal with. As he yanked a sweater from under the pillow a cup of tea placed on the bedside table toppled, spilling all over the rug, "Dammit it!" John swore, kneeling on the floor to check the damage. The sodden patch on the rug was hot to the touch. Confused, John sipped the remnants of liquid within the cup, tasting bitter, milky tea, with not hint of sweetness. Sherlock always took two tea had been made for him.

After five frustrating minutes of second guessing tie choices, John entered back into the kitchen to find Abby was neatly dressed in her uniform, her lunch box placed on the table, school bag beside and her dirty dishes cleared in the sink. Sherlock sat at the table tapping relentlessly on his phone.

"Lestrade just texted, they've found another skinned corpse in the Thames. Needs me to meet him at St. Barts in an hour," Sherlock handed a cup to John without looking up, "More Tea?"

John gestured to the packed bags on the table, "When did all of this happen?

"Last night," Sherlock placed his phone down on the table, "I packed Abby's lunch, which is a ham and cheese sandwich, an apple, carrot sticks and yogurt, as well as the pop-top tropical 'fruit' drink that I briefly considered packing before pouring it down the sink as it contains an absurd amount of sugar and preservatives for someone of Abby's age and will do nothing to enhance her cognitive function. I did it in between dissecting the bull testicles for the Larson case, an experiment I've been working on to which I won't bore you with the details but I can tell you that the results have so far proved, frustratingly, inconclusive- did you know that Abby's class is taking a field trip to the Museum of Natural History next week? I signed the permission slip. And of course, Abby dressed herself. She's clever like that," he finished his monologue with a fond look at his daughter, who beamed back proudly.

"Right," John regarded this sequence of events and slowly felt the stress leave his being, "Right, so essentially... You've done everything, and I've been a complete twa- err, grumpy for no reason?"

"Sounds accurate," Sherlock sipped his tea with a cocked eyebrow, making John experience a wave of guilt and annoyance simultaneously. He glanced at his watch, despite this welcome turn of events they still needed to get a move on. As Abby hopped off the chair and followed her Dad to the bathroom, John hung back for a second and regarded his partner with curious expression, "Bull testicles?"

"Don't worry John, I wiped down the counter before I made Abby's sandwich."

"I should bloody well hope so," John muttered as he joined his daughter in the bathroom.

"Like Elsa?"

"Like Elsa," Abby repeated patiently with a stern little nod.

"Abigail, I really do not have time for me to putting your hair in complicated styles. We're already running very late, and besides, I don't have a clue how to do the Elsa hair!" John kept his voice calm despite the panic rising within him. The clock was ticking, had had patients booked back to back at the clinic throughout the entire day and arriving late was not an option. "How about a nice, simple ponytail and if I have time, tonight I'll ask Mrs. Hudson if she can show me how to do the Elsa one. What do you think?"

Abigail considered this proposal for a few seconds, chewing her lower lip in thought.

"So, I would have a pony tail today and be on time for school, and perhaps the Elsa hair tomorrow instead?"

John couldn't believe his luck in his young daughter grasping the concept so quickly, he nodded enthusiastically, sensing an imminent departure to school and work in the very near future.

"Yes, love. So, the ponytail?"

"No."

"No?" He repeated, confused.

"No thank you, Dad," she said again, remembering manners.

"Why Abby?!" he groaned, thinking that if he got out of the house without having a heart attack from stress it would be a miracle.

"Well, I think I'd rather be late to school with the Elsa hair than I would being on time with boring hair."

Boring. He would forever rue the day that Sherlock taught their daughter that word. Sherlock. He needed to be here right now, because John couldn't and wouldn't suffer this by himself.

"Sherlock! Our daughter wants her hair styled like Elsa and I have just explained to her how we are running late and it can't happen today. Could you please say something?"

Sherlock considered the current predicament and turned to John with mild curiosity, "Elsa?"

"Yes, bloody Elsa!"

"Which one is Elsa? Is she a friend from school?"

"No Sherlock, Elsa! From that movie with all the ice. The one all the kids are mad about even though it's been forever since it came out."

"Oh yes... That dreadful children's film with the female protagonist whose eyes were bigger than her waist. There was a singing snowman, sisters overcome difficulties, that sort of thing?"

"Yes!" John exclaimed, now exhaling through his teeth, "That's the one, and right now I'm trying to explain to Abby-"

"Just a moment," Sherlock interrupted, retrieving his phone from his pocket, typing quickly then holding the screen in front of his daughter, "Is this the one? This that the sort of hair style that you want?"

Abigail nodded, looking between her Father and her Dad.

"Sit on the edge of the bath darling, this won't take long," Sherlock lifted the little girl from the bathroom counter and plonked her down gently.

And John Watson, who had seen many extraordinary things in his life, stood and watched in awe as his partners long graceful fingers combed through their daughters thick blonde hair, separating the strands with skill and flourish, like he had done this sort of thing a thousand times before. In less than a few minutes Sherlock had woven an intricate braid from the crown of Abigail's head down the base of her neck, leaving a delicate design sweeping over her left shoulder.

"There, all done," Sherlock lifted Abigail from the bath and held her up to the mirror, "What do you think?"

"I look like Elsa, it's really good! Ta!" Abigail then then slid off the counter and skipped out of the bathroom looking very pleased with herself. John hadn't spoken or moved. As always, Sherlock predicted the enviable question.

"It's very simple John..."

"Oh God, let me guess... You're going to explain to me that you calculated the abstract angles of the hair strands from the single image you looked at, and that the direction of the hair cuticles indicted the patten of the braid?"

"No John, don't be absurd. I looked it up on YouTube."

"YouTube?! When on earth did you do that?"

"If I remember correctly, it was five months ago, and it was the third time Abby had watched that film. I searched the term 'DIY Elsa Hair Braid' after the credits started rolling. You were asleep on the couch."

Though Sherlock had offered a clear explanation, John was no less confused, "But... Why?"

"Because," Sherlock continued, "I saw how much Abby adored that ridiculously proportioned woman and the way her eyes lit up whenever she was on the screen. Furthermore, she was unconsciously playing with her hair throughout the film. My deduction was confirmed when she insisted at her last two hair dressing appointments that we must keep her hair long. I knew it would only be a matter of time before she would ask to have hers styled in that way, so I thought it would be best to be prepared."

John Watson could not speak, he could only stare, at complete loss for words. Then, the frustrations of the stressful morning and all of the sleepless nights dissolved as he was once again reminded of just how much he loved this ridiculous human being.

"Brilliant," John said simply, his face breaking into smile for the first time that morning. He left the word to hang in the air between them, a single word that carried the weight of his wonder for the man standing in front of him, and as the corner of Sherlocks mouth twitched in a lopsided grin, John closed the short distance between them in a kiss that was soft and warm and too brief, a kiss that John hoped conveyed everything he felt but he did not the words to say.

"Father! Dad!" Abby's voice rang out from the kitchen,"The little hand is nearly on the nine and then big hand is between the seven and the eight."

"Oh my God, that can't be right," John groaned against Sherlocks shoulder, the reality of the day sinking in cold and fast, "We're going to be so late."

"No, we're not. Twenty one minutes and fourteen seconds. Let's get a cab."

And so with exactly three minutes to spare thanks to Sherlocks complex and rather  
forceful directions to the cabbie, the three of them piled out of the car outside of Abigail's school gates.

"Now remember Abby," Sherlock knelt before her and did a final check, smoothing her skirt and straightening her collar, "Pay attention and listen to your teachers, except Mr. Everett because he hasn't got a clue what he's talking about and doesn't know the difference between affect and effect. In fact, it's probably best to have a little sleep during his class-"

"Sherlock," John warned.

Abby hugged her parents quickly, hitched her backpack over her shoulders and started towards the school gate with a quick and confident stride. The two men stood together, shoulders just touching in the cold autumn morning as they watched their daughter walk into the distance, her shoulders held back, her posture bold but a little stiff in her gait, arms swinging by her sides. A strange but beautiful composition of her Dad and Father.

John looked anxiously at his watch, he could get to the clinic on time, only a few blocks away if he walked quickly. And tonight with any luck he might finally get some sleep. He nodded towards Sherlock, picking up his bag from the ground.

"I'll see you tonight then. Let me know how the case goes."

"Take Balcombe Street instead of Harewood Avenue, if you cut through the garden path next to eighty-nine it will get you there a minute faster."

"Thank you," John hurriedly brushed his lips against Sherlock's windswept cheek and started off down the road in a hurried pace. But something inexplicable caused him to halt and turn around. Perhaps it was the tone of the day, the rush of the morning, the stress or his sour mood and the regrets that followed, but John could not allow himself take another step away from the man he had left behind.

"John," Sherlock began reproachfully as he began to turn back, "Even my extensive knowledge of all the short cuts in London aren't going to help you if-"

His words were cut short by John colliding against him, nearly knocking him off balance. And blinking, comprehending, Sherlock grasped the edges of his own coat, wrapping the thick material around them both, encasing John tightly against his slender frame. And so they stood together, content and warm in the weak autumn sun while the clocks seconds ticked incessantly in the background of their consciousness.

"Now you're going to be late," Sherlock mumbled affectionately against John's ear. Deep, rhythmic breathing and a soft snore answered back, and it was then that Sherlock realised that he was supporting most of John's weight.

"John!" Sherlock called urgently, his partners face held between his long hands waiting for him to rouse, and when he finally came around; his face childlike and glassy eyed. John slurred an unintelligible sentence as Sherlock mustered all of his strength, hosting the doctors limp arm over his shoulder, his other gripping a fistful of sweater at John's waist as they half walked, half stumbled together through the streets London.

The morning had began in a flat that had no raspberry jam and even less sleep, where school lunches were lovingly prepared beside dissected animal parts, where princess hair styles and murder cases co-existed with ease. A morning that John had entered into barely functioning, drunk with fatigue and operating on sheer determination. But it was a morning, he would gladly admit, as he was escorted to work by a detective that loved him enough to literally drag him there, that he would not have traded for all of the tea in the world.


End file.
